


Poker Face

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Silverstone, Robert knows how to bring Fernando down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poker Face

**Author's Note:**

> for Chrissy

"He doesn't want to see anyone." Stefano tries to match Robert's long strides, almost running in his haste to keep up.

"He'll see me."

Stefano wrings his hands. "He especially doesn't want to see you."

Robert halts, turning enough to give Stefano a silencing glance. "He will see me."

An uncertain look flits over Stefano's face, but he doesn't protest again. Satisfied, Robert walks on. It's not far to Fernando's motorhome. He pushes through the knot of media assembled outside, ignoring shouted requests for a soundbite. He climbs the steps and opens the door. He doesn't bother to knock. He doesn't lock it behind him. This meeting could go either one of two ways, and Robert doesn't give a shit if they have an audience. He doesn't care about Fernando's finely-tuned sense of humiliation. He cares only about results, and he's determined to get one now.

The interior is in shadow, blinds drawn against the day. Slashes of light cut through at angles, illuminating Fernando as he stands in the centre of the narrow space. He's facing away from the door, gaze fixed on darkness, on nothing.

"Fuck off." Fernando doesn't turn around. His voice is spiked with anger, his shoulders set tight, his back hunched. He's cloaked in defensiveness, sharp edges turned inward to cut deep. Raw emotion bleeds from him.

"Look at me." Robert speaks without inflection.

"You." Now Fernando turns, but slowly, as if he's still processing his reactions. He stares at Robert, uncertain and vulnerable for a moment. "You."

Robert strolls towards him, almost swaggering. "Yeah. Me."

Fernando takes a deep breath; releases it. He squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, his posture an imitation of arrogance. "Did you come here to whine, to blame me?"

"I don't whine."

"But you will still blame me for ruining your race." Fernando tossed his head. "Even though your car failed afterwards—that was not my fault. Why should I let you through when you put me on the grass? I had nowhere to go except across the corner. Not my fault. Yet I am the one punished again. How is this fair? How can this be right?"

Robert smiles, letting Fernando talk, allowing the stream of anger and self-justification to fall into an empty silence. It'll run out eventually. And when it does, he'll be ready.

The complaints dry up. Fernando seems tired, putting a hand to his head in a weary gesture. This season has been tough on him so far. He's had difficult seasons before, Robert knows, but this one seems unrelenting, a grinding catalogue of frustration made worse by the fact that Fernando always saw Ferrari as the Promised Land.

"I can't," Fernando says, "I don't..."

Robert waits, timing his response, drawing out Fernando's confusion and anguish into the silence. "Does it matter?"

Fernando stares, throat working on words he doesn't speak. He swallows, makes a brief negative movement, his gaze sliding away.

Robert puts out a hand and taps his index finger against the side of Fernando's chin. The brief touch is enough to make Fernando lift his head, eyes full of wounded fury. "Try again," Robert says softly. "Does it matter?"

Fernando's lips part. His breath whispers out in a half-sigh.

"Hmm?" Robert leans closer. "Can't hear you."

When there's still no response, Robert steps back and takes Fernando by the wrists. Fernando doesn't struggle, doesn't protest. His eyes shine, colour flushing his cheeks, breath sharpening, catching. He does nothing but watch, docile and expectant, as Robert presses him against the wall. Fernando makes a sound, whimpers, then stops it dead. He keeps himself silent even when Robert forces him to stand with his arms outstretched, crucified, thumbs pointing straight up, fingers spread wide, the backs of his hands touching the wall.

"Don't move." The command is unnecessary—Fernando knows if he's put in this position, he has to obey—but Robert likes saying it out loud. Robert likes the imaginary made real; likes Fernando under his control.

A shudder rolls through Fernando. "Fuck."

It's an empty expletive, not a demand. Fernando doesn't get to make demands here and now. Robert takes a few steps back and looks at him. Fernando meets his gaze, defiance lingering for a heartbeat. It doesn't last much longer. Robert puts steel into his stare, challenges Fernando with it, imposing his will.

Fernando takes a quick breath, eyes gleaming in the half-light.

Robert stalks closer. He keeps his expression blank, all emotion wiped clear. He wears his poker face. He's unbeatable, unreadable, and Fernando strains towards him, hands pushed tight to the wall.

Robert stops too close, invading Fernando's personal space. He remains motionless, staring down at Fernando for long seconds. Sounds from outside the motorhome filter into their haven—the cheers of the crowd, the blat of horns, music played over the PA system. The noises bleed together, cocooning them. Robert lets it slide through him and focuses on the soft, almost imperceptible sound of Fernando's breathing.

Moving an inch nearer, Robert studies his willing captive. Fernando's lips are dry. Robert tilts his head, considering. He flicks a look at Fernando's eyes and sees the longing there. Careful not to touch, Robert lifts his hand and passes his fingertips over Fernando's mouth, keeping the space of a millimetre between them. Fernando trembles, his eyelids heavy. His lips part a little more, show the glisten of teeth, and Robert feels the soft pressure of Fernando's warm breath over his fingers.

Desire and frustration war in Fernando's expression. If he had the freedom to move, surely he'd lick his lips. Robert bends closer. Fernando jerks, checks himself, holds his breath. Tension knots his body. He yearns towards Robert, eyes half closed, breathing shallow and rapid. His eyelashes flutter; his tanned skin pales with the intensity of his longing.

Gently, so gently it's almost nothing, Robert flicks his tongue over Fernando's face. He starts at the jaw, tastes the dark roughness of stubble and sweetness of perspiration, trailing his tongue-tip over the curve of Fernando's cheek, into the dimple, to the corner of Fernando's mouth. He pauses there, breathes out over Fernando's skin, then strokes his tongue across Fernando's lower lip.

Fernando is quivering. His whole body shakes. His hands almost come away from the wall, but he holds himself back. He's been well-trained; he knows the consequences of breaking position. Robert wants to be proud of him, but there's no room for such an emotion in this carefully-constructed fantasy.

Robert knows Fernando is aroused. He can smell it, musk and desire and the capitulation of power. It cuts through the stink of the race, sweat and fuel and Nomex, and Robert breathes it in, loving it, wanting more of it. He could get used to this, but to fall prey to it would be to surrender, and Fernando is the only one here who needs to submit.

Fernando's fingers curl and flex as if grasping after something. He slams the back of his hands hard against the wall and half snorts, nostrils flaring, the reaction of a skittish horse. He opens his eyes wide and stares up at Robert. The look of control unravelling and collapsing sends lust straight to Robert's cock. The air flickers between them, electric with tension.

Angling nearer, Robert holds himself against Fernando, his whispers caressing Fernando's mouth. "Does any of it matter?"

Fernando gasps, the sound harsh. His eyes close. "No."

"Tell me again, Fernando."

"No," he says again, the sound drawn out of him, a sigh. "No. Nothing matters. Nothing but this. Nothing but you."

The reply drives a heady bolt to the heart. Robert clutches it, holds it close. He'll remember this later, when in the privacy of his hotel room he'll jerk off to thoughts of Fernando naked and spread out and pleading for his touch. But that's imagination, and this is real. His pleasure can wait; it's immaterial right now. What matters is that he gives Fernando what he needs.

Innocent, powerless, Fernando turns his head, tilts it back, offering his throat.

Robert strikes. He fastens his mouth over Fernando's neck, sucking hard on the skin. He feels the thunder of Fernando's pulse. He thrums his tongue against the jugular, beating a new tempo to Fernando's heartbeat. Beneath him, Fernando moans and squirms. Robert increases the pressure, pushing down with his teeth and sucking harder. Fernando's flesh lifts and dents, so soft beneath Robert's unyielding strength. Robert can almost taste the delicate damage, imagines the warm skin turning an unsightly, damning shade of mottled red before darkening to a bruise.

"Roberto!" The name is torn from Fernando. He struggles, hands scrabbling, and makes to pull away from the wall.

Robert finally lets his poker face slip, lets his voice show emotion, a snarl of command, a snap of possession. "Don't you fucking _dare_."

Fernando gasps, his outstretched arms shaking. "Screw you."

Robert bites him.

"Yes." Fernando bucks against Robert, twists as if in pain, hands pressing harder against the wall, fingertips white with the strain. "Fuck. Yes. Yes. Oh God, oh fuck—"

Robert fills his mouth with the taste of Fernando, his teeth clamping down, jaw working, pinching the skin, sucking it, bruising it, breaking it.

Fernando's orgasm is silent, shuddering, solitary. It shakes him apart, almost brings him to his knees. Only Robert's hands on his wrists keep him upright.

"Fernando." Robert breaks the spell, curves one hand to the back of Fernando's head and eases him away from the wall. Fernando crushes himself into Robert's embrace, gasping, flying, helpless.

Robert holds him, nuzzles through Fernando's hair. The urge to kiss him is almost overpowering in the aftermath, but Robert knows better than to try it. Fernando can't accept the easy affection of intimacy. He doesn't trust it, thinks it'll lead him astray and betray him, the way it has so many times before.

There's only this moment in the quietness afterwards, in these few precious minutes before Fernando puts himself back together, that Robert can wish for things to be different. But they're not, can't ever be. With Fernando, the bruises are all internal. Robert knows he gives them shape and form. He makes them real, and the only way he can make them real is to pretend he doesn't care.

Fernando stirs against him. Robert lets go and puts on his poker face once more.


End file.
